


The Mildly Perilous and Mostly Tragicomic Misadventures of Sir Roderick Gryffindor and 'Sir' Ivan Harris

by Rumpels



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Community: HPFT, F/F, F/M, Gender Roles, Humor, M/M, Parody, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6480517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpels/pseuds/Rumpels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some young ladies dream of being the wife of a Nobleman, Ivanna Harris dreams of being the Nobleman that the young ladies are yearning to marry. While disguising herself as her brother works while they are children, Ivanna's becoming too feminine to be a believable boy. One day, a man named Roderick Gryffindor comes to their small village, and Ivanna leaps at the opportunity for adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Ivan Dreams Like a Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toomanycurls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomanycurls/gifts).



> Most of this note is mildly important, and I suggest that you read it! First, I'd just like to give a huge thank you to Nott_Theodore, toomanycurls, MEW, and MargaretLane for discussing women's liberties in wizarding societies in the 10th century. Also, there's a bit of Elizabethan English to work through, and I'll provide a glossary at the beginning of each chapter (just a few terms, here and there). I've refrained from writing in Shakespearean verse for readability purposes. Also, I feel I should warn everybody that this gets spoof-y here and there. I will also be throwing in misplaced historical facts for my own amusement and, if you see them, feel free to point them out for brownie points! At this point in time I would like to introduce you to the narrator, let's call him Maximus Impresionante (or Max) as you and the characters will be interacting with him at various points in the story. Ideals, beliefs, or attitudes/feelings for any religion, specified genders, marital practices, societal rankings, etc. that this story may convey do not necessarily match my own, and I am not attempting to sway anybody's opinions on these matters. This story takes place sometime in the 10th Century (the Founder's Era), so please remember that generally societal beliefs during this time period may differ from ones acceptable in today's society. As a fair reminder, this story does contain slash (both female-female and male-male) pairings. It is a large influence on the plot, so if the idea makes you uncomfortable, I would suggest to not read this. Otherwise, have fun (and remember, this has the tendency to act like a parody and your narrator's name is Max).
> 
>  
> 
> Glossary:  
> Hie: go  
> By Marry: Mild expletive meaning By the Virgin Mary, in order to say “indeed”  
> Him/Omnipotent: God, in case you didn't know  
> Accursed: Expletive, meaning damned  
> Zounds: Expletive, meaning “God's wounds”  
> Sirrah: Means “Boy”, typically used to address somebody of a lower rank  
> Andgit: Intelligent  
> Maximus/Max: If you haven't read the AN or the chapter summary, he is your narrator.

Once upon a time –

No, no, that's not quite right.

In a kingdom, far away –

Scratch that.

In a much simpler time –

That's not right, either.

On a steed he had come, his face bathed in sun, by the early morn's light –

Bugger that nonsense; let's just get right into the thick of things, shall we? After all, this isn't quite a fairytale, now is it?

Miercna rīce, the Kingdom of Mercia, was being torn in two. Cnut the Great, of the Danes, and Edmund Ironside, of English blood and nobility, had divided the great nation, weakening its entirety. It hadn't been the first time Mercia was split apart, and they had survived before, so the people of the English midlands had not fear for their strong nation. By His graces, the people knew only kindness, as they were a fearful people, who dared not offend Him, for He, the great Omnipotent, could unleash the wrath of infinite power – ultimate pestilence unto the land.

In the scarcely traveled region of Hwicce, even overlooked by the ealdorman, Leofwine, due to its lack of significance in trade and overall influence, life was pleasantly typical. Eli the Breadmaker opened his shop before the dawn, and the sweet smell would carry through the town, rousing the sleeping villagers to greet a new day. Aaric the Blacksmith would walk the long main street, wishing God's greetings upon the rising merchants until the sun would fully crest over the peaks of forest trees, before retreating to his shop, Blessed and prepared for what the day would bring. Eli the Bard began his gentle chords outside of the pub, where the owner Birk, of the Ridel family, sent intoxicated men home to their wives or off to their jobs. Farmers would be having their second breakfast, breaking from the arduous labor of their trade. If any happened to be in the town that day, foreign silk and spice merchants would be setting up their shop just after the dew bade its farewell, dissipating beneath the morning rays.

The Estate of Germanus Harris would be roused, bustling with servants to see to it that everything was in order. Germanus, himself, would be waking, while his wife, Lucinda, would sleep for just a little longer. Germanus was an important man, and would need to be awake by the sun's earliest light. In fact, today it was especially important for him to rouse early, as today was the day he traveled to Wessex to meet with important men. His estate, as well as his wife and daughter, Ivanna, would be left in the care of his brother, Constantine, and his son, Nicholi. Germanus would not fret the well-being of his family under their supervision, as they would take great care.

Ivanna, an early riser herself – and who would much rather prefer that the narrator, and everybody else for that matter, refer to her as “Ivan”, though most refuse her this luxury as it is most uncouth – rushed to the courtyard, still donning her dressing gown, to bid her father farewell this morning. She was chased by the blushing chambermaids, who chastised her for streaking across the Estate.

The men present in the room, men of strong influence, leered at her as she entered, despite the protest of the chambermaids. To her father's wishes, Ivan was usually kept away from the public eye, locked in her chambers without company. She was in her seventeenth year now, soon to be married to an influential man, if one would have her despite her otherwise lecherous behavior. It was Ivan's parents who suffered the most for her rudeness and inappropriateness.

“Papa!” she greeted cheerfully, not caring that the linen of her gown, meant specifically for sleep and that alone, was too thin, too revealing, and overlooking the look of mortification that drew deep lines across her father's face. “I wish my lord be in wellness and good fortune during his farewell” – she paused for a moment, her brazenness suddenly escaping her under the scrutiny of the men in the room – “and safe travels!”

“Accursed wench!” Germanus seethed, turning his countenance away from his daughter. “By Marry, I have certainly unleashed the wrath of the Omnipotent by some misdeed to be woefully cursed with such a demon. Hie, child! You have damned our travels by your presence! Hie!”

Ivan frowned, bowing her head respectfully.

“My lord!” one of the chambermaids said, stumbling into the room, red-faced from her pursuit. “Your forgiveness, my lord, I beg!”

“Be gone from my sight! Hie!”

Ivan allowed the chambermaid to usher her from the room, at this point, feeling disparaged at her father's woe and suffering. She did not mean to cause him so much grief. In fact, Ivan constantly sought her father's blessing and praise, but could only receive it indirectly, by the attention paid to her brother, Nicholi, instead.

She was a very strange child, you see. While all of the young ladies of Mercia long to be the wife of a Nobleman, Ivan has always dreamed of being the Nobleman that the young ladies are yearning to marry. For as long as she can remember, she has always wanted to be a man. She yearns for greater things: adventure, glory, power, a gentle woman's touch. Oh, how she longed for grandeur! Oh, how she longed to be a man! Oh, how she longed to bask in the glory that came with being a man! She would never allow this to be known to her parents, however, not after the incident.

The incident occurred when Ivan was in her seventh year of existence. One day, while practicing her posture, eloquence, manners, and all other effects that her mother deemed as vital knowledge, Ivan discovered that she could levitate object, by the mere thought of doing so. She levitated all sorts of things: chairs, parchment, quills, candles, cats, chambermaids, her mother.... Of course, the devil had possessed her, to cause her to do such things. Her parents swiftly saw to it that the Church stomp the demons from their daughter. It took three long years, over a hundred different types of treatments, and thousands of prayers for those demons to be vanquished. Or so Ivan led everybody to believe. Ivan could still levitate objects, if it pleased her. In fact, Ivan could do all sorts of unimaginable things with her mind, but the Law – directly taken from His word – said that things of this nature were forbidden, as they were blasphemous...sorcery.

The demons were surely to blame, then, for her sexual orientation and longing to be of the opposite gender. Ivan didn't wish to return to the Church, nor endure the treatments again. So, she suffered in silence, hiding her true identity from all – except, of course, from Nicholi.

Nicholi was the scholarly type. While that particular asset of his wasn't necessarily a terrible feat, young Nicholi was the heir to the Harris Estate! His birthright required him to be a man of affluence and power, riches and strength, bravery and valor, but not a simple scholar. Those artsy sorts could only serve as entertainment to great men, but could not be great men. No, a great man is defined by his victories, his prosperity, and his blood, as He intended it to be.

He was yet another source of his parents suffering, for he wished for a simple life, one not defined by his grandeur. He studied the heavens; he studied the rocks and the earth; he studied the way people interacted with each other; he studied his sister's strange behavior. He thirsted for knowledge, and he needed to understand why his sister would wish to be a man. Well, he knew why she would want to be a man – for who would want to be a woman, lacking freedoms and justifications for their actions – but he knew no woman who would ever wish to be a man. It was odd; she was odd. That made her a perfect case to study.

When Ivan approached him, pleading with him to allow her to disguise herself as him and travel to his lessons in his place, Nicholi was curious. If she were to complete the tasks of the lessons – sword fighting, history lessons, the Book of His word studies, political and situational studies, dramatic speaking and flamboyant body movements, and, of course, the crash courses in arrogance, chivalry, and bigotry – in a competent manner, then his father would hear of his successes, easing his suffering brought on by his weak son. When they were but children, this wasn't a difficult task. As siblings, the two looked quite similar in appearance, with Ivan only being a couple years younger than Nicholi. It was simple for Ivan to tuck her long curls beneath a hat, and dress in her brother's clothes. Ivan was surprisingly adequate during lessons, especially sword fighting – oh, how she loved to use a sword. The long, metal object became as familiar as a second arm to her, and she was quite masterful with it. She had become quite good at being a boy. She could speak like a boy, acquired the gait of a boy, and could fight like a boy. That's right, children – though, none of you are actually children, as you need to be 17 or older to be reading this due to the maturity rating and applicable warnings – Ivan had manly swagger.

While she was taking his lessons for him, Nicholi could stow away with writings and just study. Nobody bothered Ivan while she was locked in her quarters, so there wasn't anybody around to discover her missing.

As they grew older, there bodies began to undergo changes however. Ivan grew curves in places where men didn't, and Nicholi's voice deepened, and he began growing hair where women couldn't. Ivan did her best to keep her voice low, and she bound her entire torso tightly in strong cloth, hoping that the cloth would determinately narrow her hips and flatten her chest. The lack of facial hair, she constantly insisted was a result of keeping well-shaved.

Ivan could not only –

“Sir Maximus!” Ivan scolded me, still standing in the frozen scene that we left her in. “The back story is becoming unnecessarily garrulous, and I'm cramping from holding this position!”

Ivan was an impatient girl.

Moving along, then.

She was escorted back to her chambers, and locked within. She then scaled the side of the Estate building, her small, womanly fingers easily gripping the stone walls, to her brother's balcony, as she had done many times before. Wherein, she found Nicholi pacing frustratedly.

“Brother!” she announced, throwing open the emerald curtains to his chambers. “What has disquieted you, so?”

Nicholi ceased his ambulate to regard his sister with a ferocious gaze. “Father is demanding I proclaim a marriage soon, to carry on our family's lineage – Zounds! Sister, why are you nude?”

Her face darkened with a blush. “I'm clothed enough, thank you!” she spat. “You wouldn't think twice if I were a man....”

He rolled his eyes. “Max! Sir Max! Do something, please?”

Right, then.

Despite Ivan's disgruntled sigh, she dressed herself in her brother's apparel, so that his eyes would no longer be subjected her lack of modesty. She tucked the long acorn-colored hair of hers – the hair she had inherited from her mother, but not literally, mind you, but rather the trait had been passed on by way of genetic inheritance – beneath a cap. Certainly she could pass as a boy, but not of seventeen, as she was, nor of twenty, as she claimed to be as her brother.

“Significantly better, thank you, Max,” Nicholi said, appreciatively.

You're quite welcome, Sirrah.

Ivan crossed her arms across her chest, an unhappy pout forming across her face. “You were saying, Nicholi?”

It took Nicholi several of the briefest moments to backtrack to their previous conversation, before the issue of nudity arose. “Ah, yes,” he said, preening himself in the mirror. He swiftly turned on his heel to face Ivan, his features contorting dramatically before he pointed an accusatory finger at his sister. “You have been wooing one of the Thomas' girl's! Her father has approached our father with a proposal for our union! Father insists that we marry upon his return home – to carry out my duty as heir to the Harris Estate!” He dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands. “Such burden you place upon my poor soul, Sister!”

There was a long moment of silence where Ivan simply watched her brother in his frozen position on the floor, highly amused.

He let his hands drop suddenly, and sat back onto his heels. “How was that?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

He was, of course, referring to lessons that Ivan had been giving him on the Art of dramatic speaking, flamboyant gestures, and overall douche-baggery. It was vital that Nicholi be able to preform appropriately and believable before his father and his father's associates, else the scam the siblings were pulling could easily be uncovered.

Ivan applauded his performance with vigor. “Brilliant, you're really coming along!”

Nicholi's grin soon contorted into a pout as he remembered his sufferings. “What am I to do?”

“Come now,” Ivan said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Bessie's a lovely girl! She's thick, child-rearing hips, and large, supple–”

Her brother knocked her hands away from her chest before she could make any inappropriate gestures. “Is that what you look for in a woman?” He fell over theatrically, pressing the back of one of his hands to his forehead and held the other out before him, high in the air. “Oh! I do not wish to marry!”

“Please,” Ivan scoffed, “Bessie's head is as empty as her bosom is voluptuous!” She waved her hand in the air, shooing an invisible fly. “What's wrong, brother? Fancy men, do you?”

“Certain not!” he interjected, sitting upright quickly. “I do not wish to marry anyone, of any gender. Certainly you can sympathize?”

Ivan straightened, squaring her shoulders and widening her stance. “Sympathize? Sympathize? I should think not! If I were a man, I would leap at the opportunity to marry a fair lady!”

“You've only just said that 'Bessie' was a dullard!”

“Well I would not marry, Bessie.” She closed her fist, and placed on on each of her constricted hips. “No, I would marry the fairest, most andgit, most determined woman in all the land!”

Nicholi snorted. “And she would have you.”

“If I were a man, I would be the best man to ever live! Of course she would have me!”

“And what do you propose to do about Lord Grundyblossom's inquiries for your hand, sister?”

“W-what? What are you– There hasn't– Lord Grundyblossom? The Lord Grundyblossom of the Grundyblossom family?”

He laughed. “The very same. Have you not heard? Father is considering his offer – the only offer he's ever received mind you – for your hand in marriage.”

“But I do not wish to marry Lord Grundyblossom!”

“Then you can feel my sorrow! Besides, it was only a matter of time. You're seventeen now, after all, you'll soon be an old maid, dear sister.”

Ivan departed from her brother's room, her mind clouded with gloom. She did not want to marry a man, any man, but she certainly did not want to marry Lord Grundyblossom! His family had been reaching for glory for years, and failing miserably, until he was born. This particular fellow was conniving and swarthy enough to obtain a foothold on some level of importance. Yes, it was certainly an easier life to be a man, Ivan's heart acknowledged, her longing dampening her spirit.

She slowly walked across the dusty, grimy, filthy, diseased town and ignored Igor the lame Fool as he writhed upon the dirt, preforming his Act of the Festive Worm for the idiotic townspeople. It was peculiar, Ivan thought, as she trotted passed –

“I do not 'trot'!”

Of course, excuse me, 'Sirrah'.

It was peculiar, Ivan thought, as she strode passed –

“Much better.”

As she strode passed the Fool! Typically, he would have quite a significant number of idiots gathered around him to watch his act. She soon noticed that the idiots were all gathered elsewhere. In fact, there was quite a bit of commotion going on in front of the pub today.

Ivan decided that she would see why said commotion was taking place on this particular day.

However, you, dear reader, will not know what this hubbub was all about, for this is where the chapter ends.


	2. In Which Ivan Fights Like a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max is your narrator. Ivan is your heroine. Roderick is an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Ideals, beliefs, or attitudes/feelings for any religion, specified genders, marital practices, societal rankings, etc. that this story may convey do not necessarily match my own, and I am not attempting to sway anybody's opinions on these matters. Max is your narrator. There are sensitive issues and themes in this, including slash pairings and transgender issues. This takes place in the 10th century, where beliefs and opinions do no necessarily match those today. This is a parody, so have fun with it! With it being so, I've mixed a few misplaced historical facts in and other nonsense for my own amusement. A glossary has been provided to help with those pesky Elizabethan terms. Please send any complaints or strongly-worded opinions to Sir Max, and I'll take the other comments and constructive criticisms, thank you.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Good Morrow: A greeting, positive; hello  
> Idiots: Referring to the townspeople. This one is not so much Elizabethan as it is Maximethan.  
> Baudstrot: One with a sexy walk  
> Bawcock: A fine, lusty man  
> Wench: Used as “young lady” (really)  
> Gixies: Lively ladies  
> Leaping House: brothel  
> Mumblecrust: toothless person, a beggar  
> Quit thy Prattle: “be quiet”  
> Hark: “listen”, a demand for attention  
> Shilling: 12-penny coin  
> Tester: 6-penny coin  
> Privy: Toilet  
> How now: A greeting, positive; how are you?

Good Morrow, children! It is a pleasure to see you all again, and so on and so fourth with a whole bunch of pleasantries and nonsense. Very well, we will continue with our story. Where were we?

Oh yes, with the hubbub!

Ivan elbowed her way through the crowd of squawking idiotic townspeople, determined to find the source of all of the ruckus in her otherwise peacefully dull town. She could vaguely hear the voice of a man over the noise, but could not decipher any distinguishable words.

“Look there, it is Sir Harris!” one of the wenches from the crowed gasped.

Her comrade replied with a girlish giggle, “Such a baudstrot!”

“From what I reckon, a bawcock, indeed!”

Ivan smirked at the girls' gossips, as she quite enjoyed the attention. One of her favorite hobbies was to chase the girls around the town, with promising and unyielding flirtation that would turn all of the gixies into occupants of Ivan's personal leaping house. Not that Ivan could ever exceed flirtation and some mild groping, given her predicament.

However, it was no time to be wooing the ladies. Despite Ivan's protests, it was time to find out about the ruckus was.

“ Onlian Xtra,” Ivan greeted a particularly thin, ragged-looking man among the idiots. “What is the meaning of this noise!”

Xtra made an exceptionally annoying face, deepening and exaggerating his already worn features. “Wha's teh meanin' o' teh ruk's?” he asked. He elbowed his sister, Nother Xtra, in the ribs to capture her attention. “Teh Sirs wan's ta know wha's teh meanin' o' teh ruk's!” he laughed, spittle flying everywhere.

Nother joined in the mirthful chortles, her worm-filled belly quivering as her mole sprouted another hair. “O'course he do! Tehms nobility-types ne'er knows wha's ter meanins o'notin'!”

“Too busy wit tehs politics t'knows! Wit' teh eatin' and teh politics....”

“Wager he wan's ter marry and bed teh Maiden.”

Ivan rolled her eyes, as she despised mumblecrusts as much as I do. The prospect of a maiden intrigued her, however, so she pressed the two idiots for more information. “Maiden? What maiden?”

“Wan's to know wha' Maiden, do he?” one of them laughed. Honestly, they're nearly impossible to tell apart, I don't know how Ivan manages it. Really, though, they are but extras. Keeping them straight is of little importance.

“O'course he do! Tehms nobility-types ne'er knows wha' Maiden, ne'er!”

“Too busy wit tehs politics –”

“– Enough with your nonsense!” Ivan interjected. “I demand you to tell me, at once!”

“Teh Sirs wan's us ter tell 'im a' once!”

“O'course he do! Tehm nobility-types ne'er wan's ter wait fer teh answers fo'notin'!

“Too busy wit tehs politics –”

“Quit thy prattle!” Ivan demanded, growing increasingly angry. “Hark, I'll give you a shilling if you tell me.”

“Ooh, t'rowin' 'bout shillin's he is!”

“O'course he is! Tehms –”

“– Really? Do you want the shilling or not?”

“Two shillin's!” one bargained, after little thought.

Ivan sighed heavily. “Very well, two shillings –”

“Each,” the other added, quickly.

“What? Why would I allow each of you two shillings when I only need one of you to tell me what I need to know.”

“Two shillin's each, 'r no deal!”

“A shilling and a tester, each,” Ivan offered.

“Two shillin's each, 'r no deal!”

“Fine,” Ivan grumbled, collecting the coins from her purse and thrusting them at the pair. “Now tell me about this maiden!”

One of the siblings hummed, examining the coins. “Ye should ask ter breadmaker.”

Outraged, Ivan opened her mouth to argue.

Do you really believe that four shillings is worth arguing with these dullards, 'Sirrah'?

“No.”

I would suggest making your way through the crowd to find the source of the attention.

With a sigh, Ivan left the idiots to ogle their gain. When she eventually made her way to the front of the crowd – which was a task, indeed, as bathing was not common and the idiots smelled of privy – she was lost in the sight that she beheld.

A man – with golden hair, golden eyes, and golden armor – stood among a small group of other less-important and less-beautiful men, delivering a speech that Ivan still could not hear, simply because she was not paying attention.

Could it be? Could this be the golden man, the Marty Stu? Could it be the legendary Marty Stu who travels the land, blessing all with his perfection? Could he be the very same man who is consequently better than every other man in the entire world, in every possible aspect? Could this be the man who can destroy the demons within Ivan, causing her to switch back to her intended team?

No, no. It's merely Sir Roderick Gryffindor! At ease, Ivan.

In fact, as a cloud moved to shadow the sun, Ivan realized that his hair was in fact not golden, but rather a sandy-brown color. His eyes, well his eyes were actually blue and I have no idea why Ivan perceived them being golden. Methinks Ivan may have become mildly light-headed from the overwhelming stench of the dirty idiots. Sir Roderick's armor, well, actually that was made of gold.

Let's have a little lesson on gold, though, shall we? Gold is malleable, meaning that it can be manipulated to take specific forms. Gold is also relatively weak in comparison to other metals, and significantly heavier, making it a very poor choice for armor. Sir Roderick is yet another idiot, but he is an important idiot, so let's be nice to him. For the sake of the plot, we shall declare that the armor is “magically enhanced” golden armor. Alright? Very good.

Okay, then, so Ivan snapped back to reality, as she realized that Sir Roderick was only another idiot, of the important sort.

“...your bravest man,” Roderick was saying, “to assist in rescuing Helena Ravenclaw, daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, from the baron, Bartemaeus!”

“All our bravest men left this morn,” Brirk the pub owner informed. “They've business in Wessex, they do.”

Roderick was agitated, or so it would seem. Ivan surmised that he'd been forced to repeat himself multiple times to the idiots, as they were easily distracted.

Ivan asked, “I did?”

Indeed.

“Hm.”

“Yes, so I've been told. Surely there is one brave man left in the town?” Roderick scanned over his audience, growing ever perturbed.

It was Ivan's opportunity to escape the grasp of societal hindering, and embark on a grand adventure.

“It is?”

Yes, of course it is. Why else would this be in the story? Perhaps you should propose the claim that you are the bravest man in the town.

“Are you certain?”

“You there!” Roderick interjected, pointing at Ivan with a large gesture. “Yes, you, the lad speaking to himself.”

She adjusted her stance to appear bigger, feeling all eyes turning toward her. “Er, how now, m'lord?”

“Surely you've seen some act of bravery from at least one man left in this town, Sirrah?”

Go on, Ivan! Now's your chance.

“Er, I am the bravest man left in the village?”

The lack of confidence in her statement caused Roderick and his companions to laugh heartily.

Ivan cleared her throat, attempting to level her quivering voice. “I am from the House of Harris!” she seethed, her eyes finally shining with the sureness that the sun displayed as it rose in the early morn.

“We are searching for a man, Sirrah!” Roderick informed, with a patronization that was good in nature. “You are but a boy!”

“I assure you, my lord, that I am in my twentieth year of life!” she claimed, adopting her brother's age. While Ivan was indeed a man, well, of a man's age at any rate, the idiots around her knew her to be Nicholi Harris, of twenty, and not of seventeen.

Roderick laughed again. “Your face is as bare as a baby's backside!”

Smirking wryly, Ivan retorted, “Some of us choose to keep ourselves shaven, to avoid likeness a likeness of a whore's–”

Actually, reader, I'm censoring Ivan's response, as it was quite crude and distasteful. You may think that she ended shortly after where she was cut off but, no, she went on for quite some time. The idiots, of course, found this humorous, joining in on her more derogatory comparisons. Since we've already determined that Sir Roderick is an idiot, though an important idiot, he also found this musings humorous, and there were several exchanges of inappropriate dialogue. The nature of said dialogue is even far too disturbing and explicit to give a prepared censored version of the dialogue.

Instead, let's jump ahead to the sword fight!

After some of the idiot's proclamations that Ivan was, indeed, of age, Sir Roderick challenged her to a friendly duel in order to test her claim as the bravest man (remaining) in the town.

Although Ivan's sword appeared rather inadequate to Roderick's in many aspects – material for strength, length for range, and lacking the “magical enhancements” that did something to the sword to make it better – and Roderick was significantly larger than her, Ivan was skilled with her sword. Also, given her more compact features, she was much swifter than Roderick. So, after several rather long moments of thrusting, sword clashing, measuring, cutting, blocking, monumental footwork that could put dancers to shame, unnecessary flourishing, guarding, a quick tea break, lunging, binding, falsing, shouting, several taunts, and many other happenings that occur during sword fights, Ivan swept Roderick's legs from beneath him and held a threatening blade to his throat.

That means that she won, children, in case you weren't paying attention.

 

~*~

 

Ivan retreated home later that day, fully anticipating the journey she would embark on by the morrow's light!

Sir Roderick had explained what the journey would entail, of course. Lady Helena Ravenclaw, daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw – whoever she was, had been captured by a baron by the name of Bartemaeus after declining his proposal for marriage. Evidently, the baron had the temperament of the Devil himself, and had taken her to his castle on the highest peak on Beinn Nibheis, of the Scottish Highlands. Lady Helena was rumored to be the fairest maiden in all the land, and one of the brightest. Surely, if she was as beautiful and intelligent as they said, than Ivan would make her her wife, after rescuing her. After all, a damsel in distress could certainly turn down her knight in shining armor! She would just have to ensure that she rescued the Lady, and not Roderick.

Roderick was the only son of Sir Godric Gryffindor – whoever he was. He claimed that his father was the bravest person in all of creation!

Ivan asked him that, if it were true, then why was he searching for someone to assist him on his journey. For, if his father were so brave, then surely he would make the journey with his son, instead.

Roderick laughed, informing her that his father was far too busy to run about rescuing people.

Ivan swore that, if she were a man, that she would always make time for rescuing people, especially fair maidens.

She found herself restless that night, unable to sleep. Her concerns lied with her family, on their reactions to her sudden disappearance. She suspected that it would take a few days time for anybody to realize she had gone missing, and only because Nicholi would search for her. It broke her heart to have to leave her brother, but she knew he would make do. She would follow her dream.

The first step, was to rid herself of anything that could expose her as a woman. Unfortunately, the only thing she could remove was her hair. The curly locks fell in pools at her feet as she pulled a sharp blade carefully across her scalp; she wouldn't need them to put on airs before her family any longer.

Next, she would have to pack provisions. Nicholi, as a man, had many of the supplies that she was sure that she would need – clothes, a compass, a spare dagger, and some bread, as Nicholi loved his midnight snacks.

Luckily, he was a heavy sleeper, far from his snacking time, and did not stir as she entered his chambers. By the moon's light, she packed a satchel with a few essentials and bade a silent farewell to her brother before heading to the location that she agreed to meet Sir Roderick in earlier that day. It would be several hours until their departure, but Ivan truly could not wait a moment longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Welcome back! Did you know that Beinn Nibheis is the Scottish Gaelic name for Ben Nevis? You do now.
> 
> Fun fact about Max the Narrator number two: Max does not, in fact, have a brother in need of a job. Sorry, Pix!


	3. In Which Ivan Adventures Like a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan and Roderick are your heroes. Max is your narrator. Trolls live under bridges and the Crotchety One is presumably extremeley crotchety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Ideals, beliefs, or attitudes/feelings for any religion, specified genders, marital practices, societal rankings, etc. that this story may convey do not necessarily match my own, and I am not attempting to sway anybody's opinions on these matters. Max is your narrator. There are sensitive issues and themes in this, including slash pairings and transgender issues. This takes place in the 10th century, where beliefs and opinions do no necessarily match those today. This is a parody, so have fun with it! With it being so, I've mixed a few misplaced historical facts in and other nonsense for my own amusement. A glossary has been provided to help with those pesky Elizabethan terms. Please send any complaints or strongly-worded opinions to Sir Max, and I'll take the other comments and constructive criticisms, thank you.
> 
> Glossary:  
> blaggard – scoundrel  
> flense – to skin  
> cloy – to “snap”, steal, obstruct, or encumber  
> mint – gold  
> Being a waste! – bugger off  
> As you will – whatever  
> Anon – used for “soon”  
> Hark – listen  
> Lend ear – listen  
> alackaday – expletive   
> mark – pay attention

…and so Ivan, with swift thinking and light foot, leapt from her craggy resting place, landing easily on the shoulder of the beast.

Though distracted with its attempt to squish the life from Sir Roderick in its iron-like hold, the troll started from the sudden disturbance. Thus, it thrashed and roared and gurgled like the great beast it was, attempting to throw Ivan from her perch.

Ivan managed to maintain her hold on the creature with great attempt not to folly her footing. As it would be, she could not actually do anything to assist at this point, as it took great effort to only stay on the fleshy shoulder.

“Release me, blaggard!” Roderick demanded, wriggling his restricted arms beneath the troll's large, sordid fingers. “Else ye shall taste my blade as it flenses your scaly hide!”

The beast stilled, a low growl erupting from its belly as it lifted Roderick closer to its leer. While it continued its threatening cacophony, exposing Roderick to its yellowed teeth and putrid breath, Ivan brandished her longsword, deciding the time to take action was upon her.

Like a leaping leper, though I'm quite uncertain why a leper would leap, Ivan launched herself from the shoulder of the beast. With expert timing – assisted partially by the slow-motion action sequence she was trapped in – Ivan thrust her weapon into one of the troll's glossy gray eyes.

She hung there, as the sword was now unfortunately lodged in the eye, for only a moment, with her feet dangling precariously in the air.

The creature screeched in agitation, shaking it's large head vigorously and throwing Ivan away from her sword and tumbling toward the ground. With a vociferous roar, it dropped Roderick and fled the clearing by the stream, leaving its hiding place and home beneath the bridge abandoned. *

Your hero and heroine were perfectly fine of course, dear reader, though perhaps a bit dusty from the fall.

“Rotten misfortune!” Roderick exclaimed mockingly, throwing his arms high into the air. “The devil's own luck, Sirrah! I insisted that I had everything under control and yet you jumped perilously into danger's way. What's more – you've lost your sword!”

Ivan scoffed indignantly. “Under control?” she demanded. “Is cloyed by the beast, moments away from being gobbled into its belly, under control?”

He merely laughed heartily. “I was perfectly safe in my minted armor, like a babe nestled in its mother's bosom. Come now! When you make that face, you look most like a maiden! When you speak so, you sound most like a wife! Lighten your heart and –”

“–Being a waste!” she exclaimed before storming across the stone bridge in a fitful rage.

Roderick shook his head and called, “As you will! Though, I would not recommend wandering off too far without a weapon, Sirrah!”

What was that, children? You are confused; aren't here yet? Well, why didn't you say something sooner! Where were we, then?

I see. Very well.

In the scarcely traveled region of Hwicce, Eli the Breadmaker, Aaric the Blacksmith, Brirk, of the Ridel family, and owner of the pub, farmers, peasants, and merchants alike were greeting the morn, as pleasantly typical as always. Eli the Bard sang a tune of fair maidens and brave men, and the Fool wriggled along beside him as company for the day.

The Estate of Germanus Harris was roused, bustling with servants who were scattering wildly in search of the missing Ivan. With Germanus away, and Lucinda asleep, Constantine paced the halls disturbed. How could he have allowed for his brother's daughter to go missing in the night? Germanus would surely have his head if she was not relocated. Nicholi suggested that perhaps she went to market, that she was an early riser and fairly restless. With no note, no kind-worded goodbye, Nicholi hoped that he was right, and that his sister would return home shortly.

As for Ivan, well, she is alive, or was an hour ago. If she is otherwise when I find her I shall be very put out. ** In fact, I may very well be out of a job. But where is she?

Not in the village, not in Mercia!

Oh, yes, that's right, she's fast asleep in a carriage, nearing the foot of Beinn Nibheis! Sir Roderick and his men departed the small village early in the morning, with Ivan assisting them. A sleeping potion for our young heroine and some crafty magic has already placed the team in the Highlands! As such, let our story commence.

“Sirrah!” Roderick called, jolting Ivan awake with a nudge. “We've arrived!”

“We're here?” Ivan asked in a state of groggy disbelief. “That can't possibly be... It's too far a journey!”

“Come now! It's time for our leave!” he replied, side-stepping her question with ease and thrusting the door to the carriage open.

“Leave?”

“Of course! The horses can't make the treacherous climb up the mountain; you and I are on foot, Sirrah!”

“What of the other men?”

“To take the horses back home, of course! Anon, we shall have our own glory! Make haste!”

Our heroes departed, beginning their climb up the majestic landscape that is Beinn Nibheis. Ivan was astounded by the vast fauna and flora, drowning in the plethora of beauteous sound and color that assaulted the senses. The water-logged peaty soil gave birth to many hearty varieties of vegetation – mosses and liverworts thrived among flower plants, tall grasses, and small patches of forest that clung to the lower slopes of the mountain with vigor. The pale green shoots of shaded wood-moss tangled about rocks and scree, while purple spoonwart – raising from the ground in mottled red, green, and purple grub-like glorious shoots – added color among the greens of the mosses, the browns of tree trunks, and the more hearty colors of the yellow sundew, saxifrage, and common butterwart. Heather painted over other parts of the landscape in pink and lavender platoons.

The screech of the golden eagle could be heard in the distance, guiding the twosome further up the mountain on the trail of the stream that passed them by carelessly. Red deer could be seen at the edges of those scattered forests, stilling at the humans' passing in hopes that their camouflage would serve them well. Foxes scurried through grasses and brush, and frogs leaped haphazardly into the depths of the stream, all to escape the approaching strangers.

On occasion, Roderick stooped low to the ground, examining a species of flora, before bottling a sample in a small vial. If he was questioned by Ivan, he would only sum the strange behavior up to a mere hobby, of sorts.

Between you and I, dear reader, this mountain should only take approximately four or five hours to climb from sloping bottom to rocky peak. However, the summit is only cleared of snow one day, out of ten, and the heroes had several days to wait before clear passage. Roderick would withhold this information from Ivan, for reasons of his own. You see, Roderick knew that they would require a special kind of weapon to reveal the home of the Baron, and that weapon could only be won by completing five tasks along the mountain's length. That would slow our protagonists down long enough for the summit to clear.

Before an hour's time had passed, new noises could be heard within a small, dense patch of forest. The woods were alive with soft murmurs and nearly inaudible thuds.

“Hark!” Ivan exclaimed, disrupting Roderick from his stride. “Lend ear!”

With caution, the man in the golden armor listened carefully for a moment. “Ta!” he announced offhandedly. “Sounds like a side-quest, Sirrah. We haven't the time – Sirrah?”

With stealthy steps, Ivan had already abandoned her companion to chase the noises that resonated from the depths of the forest. A sight to behold, she imagined, as she crossed through the thicket into a clearing. The forest was very small, so, you see, it took her no time at all to reach said clearing, despite any filler quality lengthy expeditions through a forest may have.

Upon entering the clearing, where tall grass danced gracefully in a gentle breeze and the sun illuminated the landscape, Ivan beheld a peculiar sight. A group of men wielding fine silver spoons gathered around small saplings, digging their spoons into the delicate bark with great vigor.

Ivan cleared her throat, to draw attention to herself. “ Good morrow, sirs! Wha –?”

A flurry of hushed whispers quieted her.

“Alackaday!” one of the larger men hissed beneath his breath. “Away with thee! You'll wake the Crotchety One!”

Lowering her voice, to match the level of the man's, she asked, “Crotchety One?”

“Indeed!” he said. “Any noise that exceeds twenty decibels will disturb the Crotchety One, and then he will release his reign of evil upon us.”

“What reign of evil?”

The other men stopped their labor to exchange curious looks before the man resumed speaking to Ivan. “Well, we don't exactly know. It is evil, however.”

Raising her brow, Ivan studied the scene before her. These men were cutting down saplings with spoons; she assumed they were using spoons to exclude the noise that an ax may make, and chopping saplings to eliminate the noise that a full-grown tree would make if it were to fall. These men were attempting to collect lumber.

“Sir Max,” Ivan whispered, “I wasn't assuming any of that –”

– Of course you were; you're the heroine of the story, and thus must be clever and –

“– How could I draw a conclusion that they were attempting to collect lumber from saplings – with spoons now less! That's an implausibly-drawn conclusion –”

– Carry on with your conversation, before the men begin to grow suspicious of your –

“– Where has Sir Roderick disappeared to?”

What?

“– Where has Sir –?”

Yes, yes, I heard you. I'm merely wonder why you want to know where the idiot is when you're in a conversation with these men!

“Curious.”

Well, I don't know, perhaps he's lost in the woods.

“'Lost in the woods'? There are hardly any 'woods' to speak of – I can see the other side!”

He is an idiot, 'Sirrah'.

“Who are you speaking to?”

Ivan's attention was turned back to the man, where it belonged. “Er – nothing. How long has this Crotchety One been hindering your duties?”

“Three-hundred and seventy-two years.”

“Have you ever met this Crotchety One?”

“Ha! The Crotchety One does not simply meet people. No, his legacy has been passed down through the centuries, warning us all against noise-making. Our village is free of noise! The blacksmith uses a rubber hammer, the pub serves only non-alcoholic drinks, the babes are hushed by the gentle tunes of the bard – who plays no instrument, yet sings the sweetest of lullabies –”

“How is it that the Crotchety One is over three-hundred years old?”

“Do not question the Crotchety One!”

Ivan contemplated their situation, drawing inconclusive data that was immune to analyzation. “Analyzation is not a word! I shall find this Crotchety One, and defeat him anon!”

“You cannot defeat the Crotchety One!”

“Mark me! I shall! Where does this master of evil dwell, good sirs?”

“Yonder,” one of the men answered, pointing to the large, ominous castle in the distance.

Just then, Sir Roderick stumbled from the brambles, appearing quite disheveled. “There you are! I've been searching –”

“Shush!”

“Come now, Roderick! We have a mission upon us!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact About Max Number 3: I will neither discredit nor credit the speculations that Max is playing The Sims (belonging to Electronic Arts (EA) Inc.), out of fear that certain people will shout at both Max and the writer.
> 
> * The allusion to the troll under the bridge was taken from the old Norwegian fairytale, Three Billy Goats Gruff originally collected and published by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe.
> 
> ** This quote is taken directly from the movie, The Princess Bride, copyright 1987, 20th Century Fox and is the required quote for toomanycurls' Princess Bride Quote Challenge


	4. In Which Ivan Tells Dirty Jokes Like a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max is your narrator. Roderick is an idiot. Ivan is angry. Nicholi is worried and gains a swag steed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Ideals, beliefs, or attitudes/feelings for any religion, specified genders, marital practices, societal rankings, etc. that this story may convey do not necessarily match my own, and I am not attempting to sway anybody's opinions on these matters. Max is your narrator. There are sensitive issues and themes in this, including slash pairings and transgender issues. ← You know, the usual.
> 
> Additional notes: Be warned, dirty Shakespearean jokes lie henceforth! Skunks are not native to Mercia, and they are actually put off by some bad smells (like urine, for example). I’ll be going in and out of Elizabethan scales a bit more than usual. I don’t know why. It just happened.
> 
> Disclaimer notes: Rick is a character played by Andrew Lincoln on AMC’s TV series, The Walking Dead (which was created by Robert Kirkman and Michael "Tony" Moore. There will be a brief allusion to him in the following chapter.  
> \--  
> Glossary:  
> alarum’d -- called to action, alerted  
> assured -- betrothed  
> fee-filled -- full of grief  
> beest -- be, as in, let them be  
> mumblecrust -- a toothless person  
> Hark -- listen  
> clotpoles - idiots  
> firk -- chastising  
> naturals -- idiots  
> shrift -- confession  
> fardel -- burdened  
> callet - whore  
> nether-purse -- genitalia

Why hello, children! It has been some time! What have our heroes been doing while you were away? Well, finding the Crotchety One, of course!

In the sparsely traveled region of Hwicce, away from the Estate of Germanus Harris did Nicholi flee, woeful of his sister’s vanishing. His Uncle and Mother had the guards and servants alarum’d full-outright, overturning the estate in their panic. Nicholi’s heart was torn with grief, for he could only imagine that it was his fee-filled announcement of Ivanna’s impending marriage to her assured that had caused her such agony as to flee from the estate. She could be anywhere.

But we know where she is, don’t we? Yes, she’s taken leave with an idiot to rescue a fair damsel. But who will tell poor Nicholi? The lad’s beside himself with worry, for Merlin’s sake! Can’t we have just one contrived plot device to assist his struggles? We can? 

Terrific!

While Nicholi searched the town -- searching far, searching wide, searching high, searching low, and so on and so forth, past all of the villagers we’ve named once or twice, and don’t forget the fool continuing trying out the new dance craze, breakdancing -- the day began to flitter by him. He’d nearly given up as morning turned into afternoon, when he’d passed a pair of haggard mumblecrusts.

“Tehms nobility-types always claimin’ tehmselfs teh bravest,” Nother Xtra was telling her brother, Onlian Xtra, as she assisted him in loading a wagon with dead skunks. 

Dead skunk infestations were a problem in Mercia, at the time. You could pick up every last dead skunk on the street before nightfall and yet, alas, by morning, more dead skunks. Some say the stench from the townsfolk was so putrid, that it would draw skunks from all corners of the world. Rafts filled with skunks rolled up onto Mercia’s shores daily, seeking out the source of such a stench. Haplessly, upon reaching the town, the stink they sought slaughtered the slinking skunks -- 

Alright, children! No need to shout! Not interested in skunks, you say? Very well, we’ll continue onward. Next time, just ask nicely. I’ll have you know, without my highly informative excerpt on the skunk problem in Mercia, you’d be lost at the contextual reference.

He nodded in agreement, tossing an armful of skunks onto the wagon. “Taht Harris feller only wan's ter marry and bed teh Maiden, he do. Claimin’ to be teh bravest -- hogwarsh!”

Nicholi’s attention was captured as he overheard his family name and immediately confronted the siblings. “Hark! Pray, dost thou speaketh of ‘Nicholi Harris’?”

Xtra and Nother squealed indignantly, running around the wheeless cart -- actually, now that I’m looking at it more clearly, it appears to be more of a crate than a cart -- swinging their skunk carcasses about their heads in panic. They came to rest, side-by-grubby-side with the crate protecting them from Nicholi’s inquiries. Squawking at him, they flourished their skunks, hoping to fend him off.

Shaking his head with frustration, Nicholi took a deep breath. What would Ivan do, were she subject to such idiocracy? He attempted to summon every lesson she’d assisted him in the art of douchebaggery and other manly acts. 

“Enough!” he bellowed, or in the very least attempted to bellow. Bellowing was a manly act that he hadn’t excelled in. “Thee two beggars wilt telleth me, else mine wrath beest setteth down upon thy heads!”

“Oh ho ho!” Xtra chortled. “Wut ‘bouts teh Harris feller?” He motioned to his sister. “Teh Sirs wan’s ter know wut ‘bouts teh Harris feller!”

“O'course he do! Tehms nobility-types ne'er knows wha's teh wha’s ‘bouts o'notin'!”

“Too busy wit tehs politics t'knows! Wit' teh eatin' and teh politics....”

“Reckons him wan’s fer us ter tell ‘im!”

“O’course he do! Tehms nobility-types always needin’ ter --”

“Yes, quite right!” Nicholi said. “Now if you could please just tell me about where ‘Nicholi’ has gone --”

Xtra and Nother began tossing carcasses in their crate once more.

“Teh Siris wan’s ter know wheeeer the Harris feller!” Xtra told his sister.

“O’course he do --”

“Just tellest me, already!” Nicholi was growing quite impatient. He did well, however, as I was growing irate with the idiots long before now. He brandished his sword threateningly for a moment, willing his arm to quit wobbling and begging the tip of his blade not to crash down into the dirt as it typically did.

Do not mock him, children! Swords are heavy, and he is a man of the book, not of the blood!

I jest, of course! Mock away, children. Mock away!

Nother fell to the ground at the sight of the sword, shrieking. “Killin’ me! Teh Sirs be killin’ me!”

“Murderer! Teh Sirs killin’ teh sis’ser! Sirs killn’ teh sis’ser!” Xtra joined in, pointing at Nother writhing around on the dusty earth and effectively drawing a crowd.

“No! Pay these fools no attention!” Nicholi said, attempting to appease the propagating crowd. 

Eli the breadmaker confronted Nicholi. “Alloweth the clotpoles beest! Faith, stranger, I wilt repay the deed!”

Nicholi lowered his sword, feeling quite nervous. He wasn’t confident that he could outskill the breadmaker in a dual, and facing death would not be a helpful step in finding his sister. “At ease, breadmaker! I give mere firk to thou naturals, pray to accite their shrift! I did not harm them. Look, there!” He pointed at Nother, who had propped herself up onto her elbows to watch the interaction.

“She’s not dead!” Nicholi pled.

“I is too!” Nother argued, flailing and flopping back out onto the groud. “He’s killed me!”

“Teh Sirs killin’ ter sis’ser!” Xtra cried.

“I have not!” Nicholi argued. “You aren’t dead! You’re still talking.”

“Am not.”

Gesturing to Nother and feeling quite bothered by the Xtra sibling’s antics, he sought some sympathy from Eli.

Eli nodded, knowingly, and the murmuring crowd of idiots began to disband. “What knowledge do you seek, stranger?”

“I beg of news of Nicholi Harris.”

“Harris?” Eli asked. “What business have you with the boy Harris?”

“I’m meant to be with him,” Nicholi said quickly. “We’ve business together.”

Eli raised his brows in surprise. “Your business bade farewell by the early morn’s light, with Sir Roderick Gryffindor!”

“Sir Gryffindor?” Nicholi wracked his brain for knowledge of the name but found none. “Whereto have they gone?”

“Beinne Nibheis, a far trek for someone so scrawny.”

Nicholi sighed. He had to agree. How could he possibly catch up with his sister in such poor physical condition? “I have not a steed nor hope,” he sighed.

“If a steed is what you seek,” Eli said, “you may borrow one from me. I have a decent stock of workers in the stables, but the tamer ones are in the paddock.”

Shocked at his generosity, Nicholi thanked him profusely. “What can I do to repay you?”

“Keep in mind the favor, for I may need it returned one day,” he said simply, before returning to his stand.

 

~*~  
Meanwhile, our heroes had scaled the blackened, craggy peaks of The Crotchety One’s lair, side-stepping plotholes and facing the unfair weather. The Crotchety One’s castle stood beneath a never-ending cascade wind and rain. Dark clouds circled overhead, glowing purple and spitting hot lightning. Thunder shook the earth, sending sharp pieces of stone flying in all directions. The paths were slick, and Ivan kept having to stop and haul Roderick to his feet after falling, but eventually they traversed the terrors and wound up in the dooryard of the castle.

Purple clouds? Ah, yes, I see you caught that. Well, you see, they were glowing purple because they were evil clouds. 

Just go with it, children. Do not question the madness.

Ivan stood before the large, wooden doors, deciding her next course of action to continue the plot. “Sir Maximus! I cannot think with all of your narration, and why is Roderick scaling the walls of the castle?”

Oh yes, so indeed he is.

“At ease, Sirrah!” Roderick called, pulling himself up into one of the second-story windows. “I’ll be down at once to let you in!”

Shaking her head, Ivan let out a sigh. Roderick disappeared from sight, presumably on his way to let Ivan in. However, our heroine is not one to waste time! Ivan pushed on the door, and smirked as it swung open with ease.

The interior of the castle was that authentic 10th century kind of spooky, complete with creaking floorboards and Elizabethan-style creepy victorian architecture. It didn’t phase Ivan, however, for she drew her wooden sword and crept along the edge of the rooms. She was a rogue in the night, a shadow amongst shadows, an assassin in the darkness, a needle in a haystack, a falling tree in the middle of a forest with no ear around to hear its crashing descent -- 

“Really? Sir Maximus, I’m trying to concentrate!”

Oh, right. Sorry. 

From the bottom of a mysterious old stairwell, one that twisted and turned in all different directions as it ascended to the next floor, Ivan could hear muffled voices and clinking noises. Stealthily, like a panther -- 

“Maximus! Enough with your similes!”

Stealthily, not quite like anything at all, Ivan made her way up the haphazardous stairwell and pressed her ear against the door conveniently located just across the hall of the top of the stairwell. 

The offending voices were within. 

She sucked in a large breath of air and tightened her grip on her weapon before throwing open the door, in order to catch its occupants by surprise.

It was the sight she beheld that caught her by surprise, however. 

But have patience, children, we should probably check in with Nicholi. The poor lad has a great adventure ahead of him.

~*~

Nicholi gazed upon the stock of horses in despair. He was awful at horseback riding, his fear of heights rending him quite useless upon the back of the beasts. 

“Woe is me!” he cried, patting one of the gentle giants on the side. “How is one as small as me to ride a beast as tall as you?”

The horse whinnied, chomping on the delectable red apple that Nicholi had brought him as a peace offering. 

It was just then that someone, or rather something, bumped him on the backside rather rudely. As he prepared a manly indignant remark while spinning around, the offender bleated loudly. Nicholi blinked as he met the face of a white billy goat -- a rather swag white billy goat with a brown patch around its eye, and whiskers to rival those of Rick’s from season five of The Walking Dead.

It was then that Nicholi had a brilliant idea. He would ride the mountain goat to the mountains! It was simple and genius! The goat would know the terrain better than anyone, and would certainly be a better steed than any horse!

Don’t worry children, there’s no need to tell Nicholi about the little issue of the ocean separating him from the mountain. He will fall into one of those plot holes laying about and find himself at the foot of Beinn Nibheis in no time at all!

~*~

“It’s about time, Sirrah!” Roderick greeted from his chair. “The tea was getting cold!”

Ivan’s mouth hung open as she took in the sight before her. Sir Roderick was seated at a small table, sipping tea with the one and only Lord Grundyblossom. Her stomach churned as she watched the spidery, decrepit man smile at her.

“Greetings! And who might you be?” he said, rising from his chair.

Ivan closed her mouth, feeling suddenly rather parched. “You’re the Crotchety One?”

He and Roderick laughed. “Or so the townsfolk call me. They fear me, and it keeps their racket down.”

“They’re terrified! They’ve been reduced to cutting saplings down with spoons as a means for lumber -- as well as a bunch of other foolish things! I can’t quite remember, I wasn’t entirely paying attention.”

“Relax, Sirrah,” Roderick said. “Come join us for tea. Lord Grundyblossom tells the best of stories. This is Sir Ivan, of the Estate of Germanus Harris.”

“Alackaday! Germanus Harris, you say? Why, I’ve recently finished business with Harris, in regards to his daughter!” He eyed Ivan speculatively, his lazy eye wandering off somewhere to the right. “Your sister, by chance?”

“Indeed,” Ivan said shortly. The idea of marrying such a vile cretin caused her skin to crawl. How could anyone marry him? How could anyone live here, isolated in the mountains, in such a spooky castle. “How could you terrorize the townsfolk, so? Dost they cause such tremendous disruption -- way up here in thy castle, far from their village and their noise -- that thou hast consumed them to aggrieved fardel in life?”

Sir Roderick was at her side at once, attempting calm her down. “At ease -- at ease, Sirrah! There is no need to upset yourself so! Lord Grundyblossom hath explained his loneliness -- Lo, when he weds your sister, surely he’ll be too preoccupied to ‘terrorize’ the townsfolk. This quest is over, so enjoy some tea that Lord Grundyblossom has graciously laid out in afore our farewell.”

Ivan was in a state of shock. Surely Roderick couldn’t be taking his side? A preoccupation? She was no man’s preoccupation in any meaning of the word. At once, she knew that the man slain would best anything the man did wilst living, and surely it would bring harmony to the townsfolk below. 

Can I bring to your attention, ‘Sirrah’, how old this man must be? Hundreds of years! Surely something uncouth he’s hiding. Do take precaution! 

Grundyblossom nodded his head slowly, grinning at Roderick and Ivan. “Alas, if only a callet whereto grovel at the soles of my boots -- or preferred at my secret spot, faith I could silence my disposition, and hers, indeed! A country of my own!”

While Roderick and Grundyblossom guffawed, Ivan felt her face drain of all its color. How dare he speak so lowly of a lovely woman? If any woman were to ‘grovel at his secret spot’, he should consider himself lucky, for such a woman would be a godsend!

She elbowed Roderick sharply to silence his idiotic hullabaloo. “Say we relieve him of such blasphemous nether-purse? Pray, hang it from the belfry so his spot be not so secret!” 

Good one, ‘Sirrah’! Clever girl, she is!

“Thank you, Sir Maximus.”

“Pray,” Grundyblossom said to Roderick. “Tell, to whom is he speaking?”

Roderick shrugged, and glanced at her questioningly. “Sirrah, what is the meaning of your outrage?”

“This man is the villain! Are we not to slay the villain? Say we end his evil reign over the subjects.”

“By my honor!” Grundyblossom snapped in outrage, thunder echoing across the mountains. “Thou wish to fight, young Sirrah? Thou are but a boy! Lay down your weapon, or taste the end of mine!”

And that, dear children, is where we leave you. Will Ivan fight Grundyblossom? Will Roderick take her side? Will Nicholi ever reach them? Find out, next time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact about Max the Narrator number four: Max enjoys broccoli alfredo, because white sauces are better than tomato-based.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: There. Now did you remember my note about parodied elements and the narrator? I hope so.
> 
> Fun fact about Max the Narrator number one: Max can only be heard by certain characters! Keep that in mind.


End file.
